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THE
CRY OF THE GULL
for Max Ernst
An
embryo with a bloodshot eye
crying
through rages of the snow
goes
seeking a skin coat to try.
What
shelter for the pulse to know?
It
sees, for its main life is sight,
that
while it wanders with stiff maw
there
is only one path through the white
that
can he held by paw or claw.
Lack
worries it, but the bruise-blue snow
stretches
to perpetuity
and
will not house it as embryo;
offers
only a thin path to try.
A
path for you to try, cold gull!
For
you have all the flesh you’ll have
and
that is fed already full.
A
path for you into the grave.
Alan
Marshfield
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